Page 9 of Wreaking Havoc
And holy fuck…he—Sascha couldn’t think of him as “it” anymore, not with that face—had clearly never missed a day at the gym. A fact that was made abundantly clear by his weird getup, wherein his broad shoulders were covered with some strange leather armor but his chest and arms were bare.
How the hell is that practical?Sascha had to wonder.
The armor was paired with loose, almost flowy black pants held up with an array of mismatched belts, more than one of which had a wicked-looking dagger sticking out of it.
Sascha frowned at that, his heart catching in his chest. He wasn’t exactly a huge fan of daggers lately.
The monster’s revealing outfit showcased not just his physique but a dark-blue mass of tattoos that ran up his chest and shoulder all the way up the right side of his neck. They weren’t like any tattoos Sascha had seen, mostly because they didn’t stay still, instead swirling like smoke over his skin.
Skin that had a decidedly blue tint to it, although a much paler shade than the dark ink of his markings. And lighter than the blue of his eyes, which were glowing like little monster light bulbs.
Overall, the effect was a tad unsettling, to say the fucking least.
Sascha tried to clear his throat, but all he managed was a strangled cough. How long had they been standing there? The monster was just staring back at Sascha, one dark brow—the same black as his hair—arched as if to say, “Well?”
Rude. It wasn’t like Sascha hadinvitedhim, was it?
Eventually the monster seemed to tire of Sascha’s frozen indecision. He opened plush lips. “Human,” he said, his voice so dark and deep it sent a shiver running down Sascha’s spine.
Well, at least he could communicate.
Sascha swallowed hard, grateful when he didn’t cough again. “Yes. Human,” he agreed, pointing to himself in demonstration. He pointed back at the monster. “And you are?”
The monster gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “Explain your purpose,human.”
Explain his…purpose?Sascha’spurpose? “E-Excuse me?” Sascha sputtered. “You just—justappearedin my living room.”
The monster’s glowing blue eyes narrowed. “You summoned me.”
“I didnot!” Sascha argued. “I wouldn’t! I don’t make a habit of summoning monsters into my living room.”
The monster gave him a concerned frown, like Sascha was daft. “No monsters here.”
Sascha gaped at him. “What?”
“I’m not a monster, pup. I’m Kai.” He bent his absurdly large torso into a weird half bow. “Kaisyir, at your service.” He said the last part grudgingly, like at Sascha’s service was the last place he wanted to be.
Sascha didn’t know what to say to that except, “Well, I don’t summon Kaisyirs either.”
Oh God, what was happening? Maybe Sascha had never woken up from his stabbing. Maybe he was in the hospital, still comatose, and this whole small-town reverie was just that: a figment of his imagination. That would explain Ivan sending him to Maine, wouldn’t it?
He hadn’t let Sascha leave New York in years.
Except everything felt so…real. The smoky scent in the air, lingering long after the clouds of it were gone. The heat of the room, which had gone up at least ten degrees on Kai’s arrival. The almost palpable weight of Kai’s stare. The way Sascha’s stomach was twisted into knots.
Surely Sascha’s imaginary, comatose self wouldn’t still be having tummy aches, right?
Kai cocked his head toward Sascha’s coffee table, where the bottles of polish and newspaper still lay. “You painted my mark.”
Now that he mentioned it, the design Sascha had traced did bear a remarkable resemblance to Kai’s weird smoke tattoos.
Still. “I was just doodling with nail polish!” Sascha protested.
Kai huffed, like Sascha was the one being unreasonable. “You said the words, did you not?”
“I didn’t know what I was saying!”
“And you spilled your blood upon the symbol.”
